


The unknown inside myself

by xagentofchaos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Suicide, it's not a graphic description, long post season 4, suicide letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xagentofchaos/pseuds/xagentofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' suicide letter</p>
            </blockquote>





	The unknown inside myself

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SORRY. I don't hate Stiles. I don't. I just always write him in horrible situations.
> 
> The letter is something I wrote for an english essay in 2nd year of high school, btw. My teacher cried, idk why.

_Dad_

_It could just be a feeling, or it could just be a sense but it’s definitely a place where my mind devours it all. I don’t know if it’s a mind palace though or just emptiness. But what I do know is that once I’ve been there, I never want to go back._

_It’s like a spider web, tangling my ribs together, unable to breathe on the surface. It could be in my imagination or in my dreams, but it sure does feel like I can touch it with my fingertips. A hole in my chest where a dark wave of fear and pain fills it up and it topples and never ends. I can try to scream but there will be no sound, I can try to hit but there will be no bruise._

_Once I’ve made it to the top and I think everything will be fine, the feeling of sinking is back. The worst is not the view I have on myself, the worst is not the feeling; the worst is falling, when I’ve fought for being healthy but then I’m back on square one. The worst is thinking that you may never make it to the top again._

_I’ve been like this for ages, weak and pathetic, begging for help but not letting myself get any. I want to be better, I want to feel safe. But it’s like being tied up, unable to set yourself free, as I’m sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean._

_For ages I’ve been trying to cut loose, to open up my ribcage and let the monsters out. For ages I’ve been cutting and carving, bleeding and screaming. I’ve been breathing through sore lungs and I’m constantly living with a broken piece on the inside. For years I’ve died every single day and I’ve wanted to die even more, to get a feeling of being alive._

_There’s constantly someone outside my door, waiting for me to invite him in. I don’t know if he’s evil or if he’s good but sometimes I get the feeling that he’s me. Waiting, wishing and wanting. He’s my reaction when someone’s too close, or when they speak too loudly or too hurting. It’s him, the man who came when I was alone, who comforted me when no one else did. There is also the boy who died in the war but he’s not so visible anymore, it’s like he’s hiding from what I’ve become._

_The feeling makes me wish I was brave enough to stab myself in my chest without dying. Just enough to not feel anymore. I’ve not been able to breath in ages and worst thing about it all is falling, deeper and deeper, never hitting the ground. How I wish that I one day can feel the asphalt under my fingers and just tell myself that I made it._

_Stiles_

 

**

 

He crumbled the paper he cried into in his hands, watching the pieces of the paper wither in the air. Staring at it with confusion, feeling his face with trembling fingers. He haven’t cried in years, haven’t let himself _feel_ anything other than the broken marble inside of him. The construction of his body is long gone; the complicated architecture of his slender body was going through a field of mines; exploded into millions of sticky pieces. 

Looking down at the letter he wrote, correcting mistakes from his shaky handwriting, reading it through over and over again. His whole life is written down on that piece of paper he chose from one of his old schoolbooks; as if he’s transparent and anyone can see what he’s made of. He wonders what they would look at. Would it be his bruised insides from beating himself up so many times, or the thick, black magma in his lungs? 

He breathes shakily through his nose when he places the letter on the kitchen table. His dad will be home in two hours; enough time for him to run away and never come back. He rises to his feet, walks in a slow haze; barely touching the ground. As if he’s dead already; a ghost saying goodbye to his dad. Dead but not sorry, he can’t bring himself to apologize, figuring it doesn’t matter. His dad will suffer; he will grief for years and cry into the night. Apologizing will only make things harder and he needs to do this. He can’t stay alive any longer in this world; breathing in the corruption and poisoned air. 

He says goodbye to the house and leaves.

 

**

 

The air is damp in his nostrils; cold particles of minimalistic raindrops clutched onto his forehead like glistering sweat crystals. The night is crispy and the half moon is bright on the sky; the stars around it shining welcoming. He wants to be there; spend his night with the burning, white dots in space. But they won’t reach their hands out to catch him when he falls, knowing that the water will rock him to sleep. They don’t want the drops to be jealous. 

The water is rumbling before his eyes, crashing down forcefully. He also brought one of his dad’s guns, in case he chickens out. In case he doesn’t dare to spread his arms widely and dive. His body is cold from the chill of the waterfall, shivering slightly to the beat of his pulse. Looking down at the unknown, at the foam and mysterious dark underneath him; a slight uncertainty hits him in the chest. He doesn’t regret writing the suicide letter to his dad, or leave a similar voice mail to Scott. But jumping off a cliff into a puddle of ice-cold water in the middle of the night makes him hesitant. 

He fingers the gun in his pocket, stroking the metal and hums into the air. A shot to the head is quick; he’ll die before he knows it. In the water, he’d have all the time in the world to rethink. But with a bullet in his brain, it’ll all be over in seconds. 

Sighing a bit, he walks away from the cliff and sits down with his back pressed against a tree. Gun dangling in his fingers, he positions his arms on his knees; resting them for a while. He looks up on the sky again, smiles faintly at the twinkling paradise. While looking, he places the gun to his temple; breathes in, breathes out. _It’s a beautiful night to die on_ , he tells himself. _Breathes in, breathes out._ He unlocks it, presses it closer to his skin. _Breathes in, breathes_ -

“Stiles!” 

With a violent jolt, the gun falls onto the ground in a dull thump. Stiles look up, trembling slightly, and locks eyes with his father. But the certainty is still in him, even if his dad looks at him with a worried expression and pleading eyes. Like a lost puppy. 

“I have to do this, dad,” Stiles whispers. “I can’t live in this world anymore, I just can’t.” 

“Yes, you can, Stiles. You hear me? You’re my boy and you’re strong.” His dad’s lips are shaking; there are damp tears in his eyes. 

“Everybody just keeps dying,” Stiles sighs. His breath is formed into misty fog in the air. “I can’t take another death. I’m not strong enough for that. No one is.” 

“I’ll help you through it, I promise. I’ll do anything for you, you know that.” 

“There’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry, there’s nothing for me anymore. Not here.” He doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t want the word ‘sorry’ to poison the surroundings. “I’ve handled Boyd dead, Allison, Peter, Derek. I handled that, even if I thought I couldn’t. But I did. But I-“ He speaks with a shaky voice, teeth shattering in his mouth. Slowly, inch by inch, he’s gripping the gun in his hand again. “Not Scott. I _can’t_ handle that.” The tears taste like salt. Salt and regrets. He shouldn’t cry again, he should be stronger than that. “I called him to tell him what I’m going to do. He didn’t call back.” He laughs thickly. “For a second I wondered why and then I remembered.” Looking at his dad through tears was harder than he thought. “He will never call back.” 

“I’ll help you,” the Sherriff whispers, getting closer and closer to his son. “I’ll help you through this.” 

“Dad,” Stiles pleads. “dad, no. I have to do this. If I don’t do it now I’ll go crazy and do something I’ll regret. I _have_ to kill myself.” 

His dad sits down next to his son underneath the tree and hauls his other gun out of his pocket. It’s shining in the moonlight, looking more dangerous than ever. 

“I’ll help you.” He puts the gun to Stiles’ temple, smiling weakly at him as a hint. Stiles gets it and place the gun he stole to his dad’s brain. Staring at the older version of himself, the tears in his eyes are thicker but more grateful than ever. “On three.” 

“One.”

“Two.”

In that second before they pulled the triggers, Stiles knew from the beautiful, whispery music of the stars that both he and his dad would be welcomed in big hugs from space. 

“Three.”


End file.
